Description. Departs from the standard white or pink Sno Ball only in color; consumers fearing that the green/St. Pat’s Sno Ball might, like the Shamrock Shake, feature an unwelcome shot of mint may proceed without fear. …Excuse us: “without more fear.” The addition of a mint-flavored component would indeed push the Ball into pre-colonoscopy-milkshake territory, but the Sno Ball is already inevitably a variation on the weirdly light, but also chewily elderly, shell of marshmallow surrounding a stale asteroid of devil’s food cake, which itself contains a pasty crème filling — dusted with ciliae of faux-conut.
Description. Various colleagues alerted us to the presence of the Snoballimus in the field, including Drs. Ariano and Barkenbush — the latter of whom risked life and limb to collect a mid-Atlantic specimen to send to B.A.R.F. headquarters.
The Snoballimus is a Transformers-branded version of the Hostess Glo-Ball, which itself is an unnatural variation on the already-artificial Sno-Ball…or Lucky Puff…or Hopper…or whichever name the Sno-Ball elects to go by depending on the time of year. The Transformers version, of course, offers even more synthetic horror for the snack-cake buck: a Smurf-hued coconut coating, over a rubbery and resistant layer of marshmallow, which in turn overlays a dry pale chunk of devil’s food cake that surrounds a luridly red crème filling. Said filling brought to mind notorious scenes from the horror-film genre — Sissy Spacek, sticky and staring. Janet Leigh in the throes. The head on the dance floor in Prom Night.
The color scheme is not only toxic but baffling also. Is it intended to create patriotic feeling? If so, whither the brown layer?
Description. Indulge Dr. Bunting in a careless Hollywood comparison for a moment, won’t you? Taking it as a given that a Hostess snack cake is the Doris Day of nibbles, straitlaced, functional, and attractive yet not sexy; and that the Little Debbie version is more of a Mamie Van Doren (presents as trashy but is merely prone to falling in love too easily, and genuinely regrets the C-minus sex she had with Bo Belinsky); with what troubled mid-century starlet shall we compare the Lady Linda Crème Finger? The fuchsia and coconut cloak brings to mind the pink champagne and maribou of a Gabor, but also the blood and single-minded desperation of a Manson girl.
Alas, yes: the Lady Linda Crème Finger, at least in its “berry” iteration, is Susan Atkins.
Its visual and corporate profiles only contribute to that impression. The Finger is extremely sweaty and sticky within its plastic sleeve, but performing the snack-uivalent of a sex-offender search turns up little on its company parent — no website, no online ordering, just the threateningly named Operative Cake Corp. and a handful of reviews touting the calorie-to-price ratio of various Lady Linda products. Like the spy or dominatrix its DBAs imply, it keeps a suspiciously low profile.
Except, of course, for the searing magenta of the product itself.
Packaging/Branding. Original-flavor Fingers evidently come in pairs, but the pink Finger appeared on its own, with no per-Finger label or nutritional information. The Finger is more or less a Twinkie, but slightly shorter and narrower so as not to arouse the ire of Hostess.
Flavor Profile. Whether it proceeds from the food dye, the lazily applied clumps of coconut, or the too-sweet crème filling, the Finger tastes like spongey baby powder.
Habitat. Delis acting as a front for some other business; the California desert; Queens.
Field Notes. When purchased with a Mexican Coca-Cola, may occasion a frightened “Daaaang” from the cashier.
Revulsion Scale: 10